A Villain Named Jim
by Elizabeth Lucifer Moriarty
Summary: Momor. The relationship of Moran and Moriarty from The Great Game-ending to post-Reichenbach. Fluff, and cuteness, mixed with inevitable temper tantrums. This is my first fic, and it's finally complete, so please review! Rated T some language and violence; just to be safe.
1. Engagements

Chapter One-Engagements

_If you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I will make you into shoes._

James Moriarty (please call me Jim, everyone does), walked purposely from the pool, closing the doors behind him, and closing his phone, both with a definitive snap. He slipped his phone into the pocket of his expensive, tailored, Westwood trousers, and walked down the back hall of the swimming pool with a confident smirk. In his mind, he replayed the scene with Sherlock and John, specifically the looks on the great consulting detective's face as he revealed his plan to him. Jim scowled to himself, making a mental note to give Irene Adler a firm repercussion for interrupting such a FUN engagement.

His annoyance at Adler-formally known and referred to as The Woman-was brought to a halt as he exited the building that still contained a consulting detective, a blogger, and enough explosives to blow the entire building up, and was greeted with an unexpected surprise. A tall, well-built man, clothed entirely in black, and with a sniper rifle slung over his shoulder in a case, was leaning against the wall of the alleyway the door opened into. He has one hand in his pocket, the other behind his back, and a confident grin on his scarred face.

"Sebby!" shouted Jim, dropping his cool and confident façade to run into the broad chest of his sniper, Sebastian Moran. Jim wrapped his arms around Moran, and squeezed until his arms felt numb, and still found the strength to pull himself still closer to the now-chuckling amiably sniper, apparently attempting to join his slight form with Moran's larger, more muscular body. Then, Jim pulled away, and looked up at Sebastian with a pout, wondering why his favorite assassin wasn't hugging him back. Sebastian, apparently aware of the reason for Jim's sad face, grinned and said, "You almost crushed them," and pulled a bouquet of blood red roses from behind his back. Jim squealed with joy, and reached eagerly for the flowers, and caressed their silky petals. He then reached his hand up, and set it gently against Sebastian's face, brushing the grown-out sandy locks out of his eyes, before wrapping his open arm around Sebastian's neck, and pulling him into a loving kiss. Sebastian smiled against Jim's eager lips, and pulled away, one hand still in his pocket. Jim was annoyed and confused, and he looked up-or rather, _down_ at Sebastian, who had sunken to the ground on his knee.

Sebastian brought his hand out of his pocket, and placed both of his hands around Jim's. "I've missed you." He said, staring up into the criminal mastermind's glinting eyes.

"I've missed you too," choked Jim, furiously blinking away tears, "I thought…I thought…"

"You thought I was dead," stated Sebastian simply. Knowing that he would cry if he opened his mouth, Jim bobbed his head up and down in a frantic nod. Sebastian chuckled, and lovingly stroked Jim's hands, "James. You know I'd never do that to you. And three years away in Afghanistan doesn't mean I'm dead. Besides, I still have something important that I've got to do, and I couldn't let dying stop me."

Jim's breath caught in his throat as he watched Sebastian slowly reach back into his pocket, and extract a small, navy blue velvet box. He brought it up, so Jim could see it properly, and opened the lid. Inside was a ring. It was a simple ring, a band of flawless silver, but to Jim, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"James Moriarty," began Sebastian, "will you marry me?"

Jim couldn't breathe. A shaking hand flew to his mouth, as he whispered, "yes." Tears began to stream freely from his eyes, as Sebastian slipped the ring onto the ring finger of his left hand. Sebastian then rose to his feet, tucking the ring box back into his pocket, and setting down his rifle case. He reached out to Moriarty, and tilted his face up to kiss him. Jim forgot all about the roses, as he dropped them and snaked both arms around Sebastian's neck, pulling him closer. The assassin responded in kind, threading his muscular arms around Jim's slender figure, and pressing himself against the consulting criminal, and kissing him harder.

Jim made a noise deep in his throat, halfway between a whimper and a growl, and pushed Sebastian against the alley wall. Sebastian ran his fingers through Moriarty's slicked-back, perfect hair, and slid his tongue into the evil geniuses mouth. Sebastian only broke away once, to kiss a trail down Jim's neck, whispering "I love you," and hugging Moriarty tightly to his chest.

They stood in the alleyway for a very long time. Neither of them could remember how long, but they only broke apart as the beginnings of rain and rumbles of thunder broke their intimate silence. Jim giggled, and reached up, as if to touch the darkened clouds, and allowed the rising amount of rain to trickle over his delighted face. He spun in a circle, nearly toppling over from slipping in a puddle, but Sebastian caught his elbow and righted him, laughing at the silly expression on James's face. Jim giggled too, and stood on his tiptoes to kiss Sebastian lightly on the cheek.

"C'mon, we should really be getting home." Jim said with a grin, his features looked animalistic, and his pupils were blown wide, giving him a rather frighteningly mad appearance .

"Home?" asked Sebastian, confused.

"Well yes, you dolt! I just accepted a marriage proposal from you, of course I'm not going to let you freeze on the streets or stay at some cheap motel. As your new fiancé, I insist that you come and live with me, and go out with me tonight, for a celebratory dinner."

"What're we celebrating?" asked Sebastian.

"Your return, healthy and whole. Or our engagement. Or both!" Answered Jim, happily swinging his and Sebastian's intertwined hands, and grinning and giggling madly. "But for now, let's get you home and cleaned up." And with that, and a surprising amount of strength for a man his size, James Moriarty pulled Sebastian along the alleyway, and out onto the street, where a sleek, black car was waiting.


	2. Celebration

Chapter Two-Celebration

The car ride was short. Sebastian was incredibly thankful for this. He was cold, and wet, and he didn't know how long the car ride would take, knowing Jim's erratic moving habits, he could live anywhere in a 50-mile-radius from London. The car pulled up to the curb beside a large, modern-looking house. Jim stepped out, walked around to the other side of the car, and pulled the door open. Sebastian got out, looking the house up and down appreciatively.

"You like our new home?" Jim inquired, noting Sebastian's expression.

"It's quite…impressive," said Sebastian. Jim giggled.

"Yes, well, I managed to burn down our old apartment, and similarly destroyed a few after that, so I thought it might be time for something larger." Jim smiled cheerfully, and flitted behind Sebastian, giving him a shove up the front walkway, and up the steps, to the beautiful mahogany door, adorned with a large brass knocker. Jim slipped in front of Sebastian, humming tunelessly as he pulled out a ring of keys. He slipped one into the lock, unlocking the door. He slipped the keys back into his pocket, turned back to Sebastian, and pulled him by his hand into the spacious entry room.

Without giving him a chance to look around, Jim pulled Sebastian through a hallway, a doorway, up a set of stairs, down another hall, and through a final door. He led him into what was obviously the master bedroom. Finally letting go of Sebastian's hand, Jim strode across the gleaming hardwood floors, and stood at a point directly in front of the king-sized bed. He looked back over to where Sebastian was, still standing in the doorway, and said blithely, "I believe we should get out changed. I for one am positively SOAKED, and quite freezing. I could really use a nice, hot shower."

With a sidelong grin at Sebastian, Jim pulled his expensive Westwood suit jacket back off of his shoulders with a flourish and tossed it into a corner, raising his arms as if waiting for applause. Sebastian looked at the villain, and rolled his eyes. Jim kept his arms raised, and galloped about the room, twirling and laughing.

Sebastian watched him with a curious fascination; he had never seen Jim like this. Well, perhaps once or twice, but Jim was usually either brooding and reclusive, wishing to be left alone, or mad with lust, eyes burning with a feral desire, and wouldn't let Sebastian sleep or leave the bed. Or, Jim would be violent. Usually not only to others, but to himself; drugs and alcohol, knifes and razors. This last, self-destructive mood usually happened when Sebastian was away; he would return to find Jim in a puddle of blood, or Vodka, or not find Jim, and have him turn up at any hour of the night, covered head to toe in other humans' gore, and ranting madly about something that made no sense. When this happened, Sebastian would take Jim gently by the shoulders, and strip his soiled clothing off, wash him in sudsy warm water, and groom him and tuck him safely into bed.

But no, Sebastian rarely saw Jim this elated. It usually only happened after a particularly interesting and unexpected turn of events somewhere in Jim's labyrinth of a criminal empire, and Jim had to sort it out. Or, when Jim had discovered something, or some_one_ that he found predominantly inspiring or engaging. The first time Sebastian had seen him look like this was the first day they'd kissed. It was also, incidentally, the first day they'd had sex, and the first day they'd slept in the same bed, after confessing their feelings for each other.

Sebastian was jolted out of his memories as Jim snagged his hand while passing, and pulled Sebastian painfully into the doorway that lead to Jim's bathroom. Sebastian was dazed for a moment, while Jim doubled over with a fit of giggles, but soon regained his focus, and, grinning evilly at Jim, and flung out a long arm, sweeping the giggling psychopath off his feet, Jim squealed with excited delight, and caught his upper half in the other arm just in time to prevent James Moriarty's head from hitting the cold linoleum floor of the bathroom.

Jim looked up at Sebastian, who now held Jim in his arms, and smirked at him, struggling to escape his hold. The assassin pulled his arms tighter, like a boa constrictor, and leered down at Moriarty's frustrated face. Jim, realizing his predicament, ran the tip of his tongue over his thin lips, staring at Moran. He slipped his arms around the sniper's neck, and pulled his face down, pressing their mouths together. Sebastian moaned, as Jim explored his mouth with his tongue, and loosened his grasp.

He didn't realize his mistake until Jim had slipped, agile as a cat, out of his hold, and shoved him back out of the door, into the bedroom. Jim sneered at Sebastian, who had stumbled and fallen flat on his back, on the polished wood floors, looking rather stupid. Jim clasped his hands behind his back, and kicked the bathroom door shut. A sharp click told Sebastian, who had now gotten to his feet, that Jim had locked himself into the bathroom, and Sebastian out.

"It isn't polite to _manhandle_ your host, Sebby. Honestly, where ARE your manners?" Jim's Irish lilt came, muffled slightly, from behind the locked bathroom door. Sebastian grumbled quietly, hands in his pockets, and Jim laughed. Sebastian heard Jim take the rest of his clothes off, and turn on the shower, humming. Sebastian sighed, and sat down on the bed. "You can have a shower when I'm done, Seb," called Moriarty, "maybe when you start _behaving_ properly, we won't have to take separate showers." Sebastian could hear every seductive word that came from behind the door and over the roar of the shower; he could hear it as clear as is Jim was sitting next to him, whispering in his ear.

Sebastian stood up quickly, in an attempt to conceal the uncomfortably embarrassing bulge in his trousers. Just hearing Jim's _voice_ could get him hard. _Damn. _Moran didn't know just how much he had missed the consulting criminal. He was really in love. Seb wandered around the spacious master bedroom, wishing there wasn't a locked door between himself and Moriarty. Not that a locked door could stop him, but he wasn't sure how Jim would respond to having Sebastian break down his bathroom door, and climb into the shower with him. Just as Sebastian was deciding to risk it, the shower stopped. Sebastian could hear Jim humming as he got out of the shower.

There was a click, and the bathroom door was flung open, to reveal a wet, dripping, half-naked Jim, a towel wrapped snugly around his waist. Jim ran a hand trough his hair, and smirked at Sebastian's expression. "Well, I knew you'd _missed _me, Moran, but I didn't think it would be this…"he glanced evilly down, raising his eyebrows, _"apparent." _

Sebastian gave Jim a furious look, and marched right up to him, getting right up in his face. Jim stood with his arms crossed, looking up at the assassin with a smirk. Sebastian swiftly bent down, and flung Jim over his shoulder. Jim shrieked with amusement, and clung to the back of Sebastian's shirt as the sniper hoisted him up, and tossed him onto the bed. He then strode over to where Jim was lying, breathless, and reached out to him to tickle him. Jim grabbed his wrists, and said, "now, now, Sebby. You really need to get cleaned up. Go take your shower, and then we will go out to dinner." Jim slapped one of Sebastian's wrists sharply, and stood, steering him to the bathroom. Jim got Sebastian into the bathroom, and closed the door. Sebastian sighed, and removed his clothing, stepping into the shower.

An hour later, Jim and Sebastian were walking up a darkened street, holding hands. Jim, looking particularly mad in the faded glow of the streetlamps, pulled them both to a halt, in front of a _very _posh-looking restaurant. Sebastian glanced at the door of the restaurant, and looked at Jim, confused. There was a closed sign on the door, and through a window, they could see a few last groups of people, finishing their supper, and some waiters bustling around, clearing tables, and shutting off lights. The place was obviously closing.

Jim looked over at Sebastian with a grin, "only the best for my fiancé," he said in a singsong voice.

"Jim, I don't think they're open," Sebastian still looked at Jim with an incredulous look on his face.

"That doesn't maaaatter, 'Bastian!" The consulting 5 year old emerged, looking at Sebastian with a pout.

"I think it kind of does, Jim."

"Does noooooottt!"

"I'm not starting this with you, Jim. We really need to go someplace else, because, like it or not, this place is closed, and yes, it _does_ matter-"

"DOESNOTDOESNOTDOESNOTDOESNOO OOOOTT!" the most powerful criminal mind in England shrieked and stamped his feet, pounding on Sebastian's broad chest with both fists. Sebastian grabbed both of the smaller mans wrists, and let him struggle for a few seconds. Unable to break the sniper's hold, Jim finally calmed down, and rested his head against Sebastian's chest.

"I _know_ it doesn't matter, Sebby. Want me to show you?" Jim pulled his wrists away from Sebastian, and turned towards the door, straightening his impeccable suit with a tug. He raised a hand, and knocked thrice on the door.

Inside, a waiter looked towards the door, and hurried towards it. Sebastian was about to suggest they leave- judging by the waiter's face, he might decide to call the police if Jim made a fuss-but the man came up to the door with a key, and unlocked it, smiling at Jim, who was looking delighted.

"Table for two," Jim said happily.

"Yes, Mr. Moriarty," the waiter replied obediently with a bob of his head. He then grabbed two menus, and led them to a table at the center of the room.

"We'll have my usual, Ivan," Jim said to the server as he sat down, gesturing for Sebastian to do the same. The server wrote something in a pad of paper, nodded, and scurried to the back of the restaurant, through a door.

Sebastian looked uncomfortably around at the other people in the room, obviously couples, who were finishing their meals.

"Oh, _sorry,_ 'Bastian, I entirely forgot. You don't _like_ being in a room full of strangers. Silly me," and with that, Jim daintily picked up a spoon from his satin napkin, and tapped it against his empty wine glass, sending three resounding tones into the room. The couples at the tables stopped talking, set down their cutlery, and stood, taking their jackets and purses with them as they exited the restaurant through the back. Jim giggled. "Ooh, I just _love_ doing that! Watch them leave, sheep in a line!" He cackled manically, and turned to Sebastian with a softened expression, placing a hand onto Moran's, "Now it's just the two of us."

Jim was obviously pleased at the surprised look on his fiancé's face. He knew that he had impressed Sebastian, and that was always a good thing. The consulting criminal placed his chin on his hands, and stared at Sebastian, wearing a very pleased Cheshire cat grin that was illuminated by the light of the single, glowing candle on their table.


	3. Possessive

Chapter Three-Possessive

Sebastian was lying on the comfortable mattress of the master bed, the consulting criminal on his chest, purring softly as he slept- a satisfied smile on his lips. Sebastian stroked a hand through Jim's hair, gazing out a tall window on the wall. The sun was just coming up, barely shining over the rooftops of the office buildings in the distance. Sebastian thought. He thought about his time in hiding, after he had gotten the news that his commanding officer had put the word out, and now people were coming to take him in for psychological therapy. Because he enjoyed killing a little _too_ much. Because he did things to his slain enemies or targets that didn't go over well with the people further up, who called the shots. Sebastian had run. He ran and hid, sleeping somewhere different every night, if he slept at all, working his way home, back to Jim.

_Jim._ That had been the thought that had kept him going, day after day of hiding and running, the thought of the beautiful madman curled up against him, as he was now, was more motivation than any military paycheck or successful kill ever could be. And now, here they were.

Sebastian sighed, and felt Jim shift, and wrap his arms tighter around the hit man's chest, his face scrunching up as he made effort to curl himself closer to Sebastian. Sebastian draped an arm around Jim's thin shoulders, and the two most dangerous men in the world sighed with content.

"Sebaaaaastiaaaaaaan!" the voice of James Moriarty drifted through Sebastian's consciousness, as he became vaguely aware of a slight stinging pain in his left bicep. Sebastian opened his eyes, to reveal his erotic fiancé, wearing nothing but a pair of navy blue Westwood trousers, and holding a long knife, with which he was lightly cutting into Sebastian's arm. Sebastian immediately tried to jerk his arm away, but was held fast by the fact that Jim seemed to have handcuffed his hands behind the bed frame, so movement seemed not to be an option.

"Surprise!" Jim sang, taking the knife momentarily away from his carving to raise both arms in the air with an open-mouthed grin. He then went back to his work, concentrating on whatever it was he happened to be slicing into Sebastian. Angry, Sebastian tried to yell, but groggily realized that Jim had, indeed, gagged him as well. He contemplated kicking Jim off-he seemed to still have control over his legs-but decided not to, seeing as the other man was still holding a knife that was embedded in his flesh.

Jim glanced up, upon noticing Sebastian's struggles, and simpered, "whoa there, tiger. Don't struggle too much; you'll ruin daddy's artwork!" Sebastian groaned, but stayed still, until finally, "Done!," the consulting criminal tossed the knife aside, and, pressing himself down onto Sebastian, who was still lying obediently on the bed, he licked away the blood that had seeped from the cuts.

Jim leapt up, off of the bed, and grabbed a mirror off of the bedside drawers, humming.

"Well, Sebby? What do you thiiiiiink?" Jim held the mirror, so Sebastian could see (backwards, of course, in the reflection) that Jim had carved a bloody heart around two letters into his arm; 'JM'. "Now _everyone_ will know that you're miiiiiine!" Jim sniggered, and crawled on top of Sebastian, and undid his gag, tossing the bit of fabric aside. Then, he crawled further up, to undo the handcuffs, and had his lower stomach _very _close to Sebastian's face. Sebastian waited until he felt the handcuffs slide off, and snapped his head forward to bite the consulting criminal, quite painfully, just below his bellybutton.

Instead of crying out in pain, as Sebastian knew he wouldn't, Jim let out a long, delicious groan of pleasure, and slid himself down, so he was face-to face with the assassin. He leaned forward just slightly, and closed the gap between their faces, kissing him roughly on the mouth. Before Sebastian could get his arms around the consulting criminal, to bring his body closer, Jim broke the kiss, and rolled out of the bed, and padded across the room, to a chest of drawers.

"I've got a job for you, Moran." Jim's voice held no hint of playfulness, or teasing; only business. He pulled some clothing out of a drawer, and tossed it to the sniper, "your phone and a description of the job are in your shoes, which are by the front door. All the details are there, and if you have a question, you may text me." And with that, the criminal mastermind disappeared through the doorway, and out into the hall. Sebastian hauled himself off of the bed, and began to get dressed.

A few hours later, Sebastian walked into a pub. It was probably not the best idea, but he needed a drink, and he still had an hour to call a cab, and get back to the house. He sat on the squeaky barstool, and ordered a whiskey. Then another. And another. He kept drinking, drowning his vexing thoughts.

As Sebastian drank, his mind felt lighter, and things didn't seem to matter much anymore. Until he caught a look at the clock, and noticed that he should have been back to the house twenty minutes prior. Tossing a bill down on the counter, Sebastian hurtled out the door of the pub, and hastily flagged down a cab.

When he reached the house, he got to the front door, found it curiously unlocked, and hurried inside.

"Jim?" Sebastian's worried voice echoed through the halls of the expansive house.

Nothing.

Sebastian flew up the stairs, down the hall, and into the bedroom.

Nothing.

He ran from room to room, shouting his lover's name, in a voice that soon crumbled into unintelligible sobs. He found his way back to the bedroom, and gave it a more careful look.

The room appeared to be quite untouched. Except the bed. The silky black sheets were slightly ruffled, one pillow slightly askew.

And the window.

The large window, on the other side of the room, was open, gossamer white curtains floating in the soft, evening air. Sebastian hurried over to it, and looked quickly down at the grass beside the house outside, two stories down.

Nothing.

A sigh of relief and a nervous laugh burst from the pocket of anxiety in Moran's stomach. Jim wasn't dead. Jim _isn't _dead.

Then where _was_ Jim?

A slight rustling noise came from behind the sniper, and he spun round, startled. A scrap of paper caught the breeze again, and rustled lightly to the floor. Sebastian strode over, and picked the scrap up.

Such a small piece of paper, thought Sebastian. Something that would most assuredly go unnoticed if someone had broken in. _that's why the door was unlocked. _Something that wouldn't be noticed when men came into the room, looking for Jim. _The window._ He'd probably had enough time to lower himself down the wall, gripping ledges on the way down.

Sebastian was no genius, that was certain, but he knew who had come for Jim. The same man had tried to get to the sniper himself, at one point. Sebastian glanced at the fragment of paper, where Jim's elegant penmanship had been forced into a hurried scrawl:

You're late.

Sebastian's lip curled into a snarl as he clenched his fists around the note, and hissed,

"_Mycroft."_


	4. Information

Chapter Four-Information

Sebastian had entirely planned to go after Jim. He would hunt Mycroft down, and kill any man that came between the sniper and his consulting criminal. However, as hot tears of rage trickled down his cheeks, he began to feel dizzy and exhausted.

He barely remembered all of the drinks he'd had, before he found himself curling up in the Jim-shaped dent in the covers of the large bed, breathing the other man's scent from the pillows.

Jim Moriarty sat in a cold chair, in a dark room. If someone who knew of him looked upon him now, they would wonder at his bedraggled state. Jim would probably snippily inform them that he had been rudely awoken from a nap, and forced to run two miles in his pyjamas before being roughly tackled to the ground by a few thugs of the British government.

He still had his pride, though. No matter how many times the brutish man, standing above him, hit him or threatened him, he wouldn't say a word.

He barely even noticed the sting anymore, as his head snapped sharply to one side, each time bringing his eyes back to the man's face, daring him to punch James Moriarty again.

And again.

Jim knew what he wanted. And it was for that reason that he also knew he would get _exactly_ what he wanted.

He always did, after all.

So he sat.

After a stretch of time that couldn't have been more meaningless to him, Jim heard the door open behind him again.

He knew who it was.

"So, Mycroft Holmes. Come to give me what I want?"

The other man, wearing an impeccable expensive-looking suit walked forward.

"I'm not here to play your little game, James."

"Oh I know _that_," the criminal mastermind turned towards the government man with a look of sarcastic incredulity. "I know what you _want;_ you want what I've got."

Mycroft nodded, sharp and businesslike.

"Well, then it appears we are of the same mind, in that area, at least."

"Explain."

Jim grinned at him, and thought for a moment.

"D'you like fairytales?"

Mycroft sighed.

"I told you already, James. I don't have time for thi-"

"Well I do. Fairytales. Their so…_interesting_. So much better than real life. The thing is, real life _usually_ turns out to be the fairytale. When it's all a _story_, made up for other people's enjoyment. Except when it isn't, of course. But you obviously have no issues with that. You don't _believe _in fairytales."

Mycroft gazed down at the man he was to be extracting vital information from, and marveled. He marveled at the depth of Moriarty's insanity, he marveled at the way he had withheld information through days of beating, and torturing.

"Well, you're right," Mycroft said to Jim, "I _don't _believe in fairytales."

Jim stuck out his tongue, "That's because you're _ordinary." _

He said it in a scathing way, which could only be interpreted as an insult, and continued, "Which surprises me, because _he's_ not."

Though he knew perfectly well to whom Moriarty was referring, Mycroft played along, asking, "Who do you mean?"

Jim grinned maniacally up at him, "Your little brother, of _course._ Really, it's quite amazing, the way he thinks. The way he works. The ways I can make him dance."

Jim seemed to be transported for a moment, gazing into the middle distance with a blank, glassy look in his dark eyes. He quickly returned to sneering up at Mycroft.

"That's what I want, in case you were wondering."

Mycroft tilted his head to one side, "What?"

"Information, Holmes. About Sherlock. And not just big things-I already know quite a fair amount-but the little things. Small childhood acts, unimportant things that turn out to be what holds his mind together."

Mycroft paused, and thought.

"And if I refuse?"

Moriarty leered, "Then you can torture me into oblivion, and every scrap of information I hold will die with me."

Mycroft took a moment, then walked closer to Jim, and held out a hand.

"Very well, then. I will comply."

Moriarty took his hand, shook once, and dropped it.

"Very well then, Mycroft. You start."

Jim leaned back into his chair, and waited. Mycroft cleared his throat, and began.

Sebastian had looked _everywhere._ He had tracked down, and violently interrogated men who worked for Mycroft Holmes, he had snuck into every single government building or prison in the area which he knew to be under the influence of the Holmes man, and found that Jim wasn't in any of them.

It had been a little more than a week, since he had seen Jim last. Sebastian was beginning to get frantic. He started interrogating people he thought _might_ have heard of Mycroft, and was too violent with most of them. They all ended up dead.

So, of course, it was with an incapacitating mix of fury, relief, and bewilderment that the sniper received a call the next day, from Holmes himself.

"Hello, Moran. I'm here with Jim, and he says he'd quite like to go home now, we are prepared to release him. Please come and pick him up."

Then an address. Sebastian knew the place, it was one of the few places he _hadn't_ looked over; a small, (supposedly) abandoned prison building, just outside downtown London.

Sebastian nearly fell a few times, as he flew out the door, to call a cab.

_Sherlock_

James Moriarty sat in his uncomfortable, metal chair, in the middle of his personally redecorated room.

_Sherlock_

He was obsessed. He would admit it, freely. He had always known that he had one purpose in life, and now he was quite sure of the purpose's name.

_Sherlock_

He was quite taken with the man, ever since he found out that someone didn't quite buy the Carl-drowned-in-the-swimming-pool-of-his-own-accord story, which the police had gobbled up so _willingly._ No, this was a man who wouldn't just look at something, and insist he had seen it properly. This was a man who actually _saw_ things. Saw them as Jim did. As nobody else did.

_Sherlock_

And so, that was what was written upon, and then scratched into every inch of the walls of his small room.

_Sherlock_

Yes, to be sure, Sherlock Holmes had never had a more devoted fan.

Jim almost regretted when two very muscular, large men came for him, accompanied briefly by Mycroft, who entered the room to explain that Jim would be released, and he had someone of the way to get him and take him home.

Jim nodded without expression, but was internally ecstatic.

_Sebastian!_

Mycroft left, and the two large men gripped Moriarty's upper arms, and half-carried the light man out of the room.

It was an odd parody of déjà-vu. Jim came out of the back door of the building, and into an alleyway, where Sebastian was waiting.

The differences were that Jim hadn't been strutting proudly away from an enlightening conversation, but shoved out of the door by the two brutes of Mycroft's. And also that Sebastian, instead of leaning casually against the alley wall, was standing straight, wringing his hands, with an uncommon look of pure concern on his face.

Jim looked at him, with just a touch of sympathy, and walked over to take hold of one of Sebastian's hands.

"I'm alright, Seb. _Really._" He smiled softly up at the sniper, whose expression only diminished slightly, before he pulled Jim's face up to his, and pressed their mouths together.

It was one of the oh-so uncommon, purely emotional kisses, where they were seeking less sexual satisfaction, and more about the need to hold on to, and be a part of the other. It was, of course, one of those kisses that could never be quite long enough, and when it was over, both could say it had been all too brief.

Jim looked into Sebastian's eyes, and saw a softness that no one else had or would probably ever see.

But Jim just couldn't get Sherlock Holmes out of his head.

He was obsessed.

And so, it was with slightly distracted happiness, that he strolled down the alleyway, hand-in-hand with his sniper, towards the car that was waiting for them.


	5. Distraction

Chapter Five-Distraction

Jim couldn't focus.

That was the first thing that Sebastian noticed, the first thing that was slightly off about his general demeanor; he just couldn't focus.

On anything.

Not just larger things, in which Sebastian would have expected a little lethargy from the apathetic consulting criminal, but things as routine and basic as eating a meal, brushing his teeth, or even getting dressed and ready in the morning.

Sebastian would find him, wandering about the house and muttering incoherently, with only half of his teeth brushed, or without having eaten any food, or having either incorrectly or entirely overlooked a piece of clothing.

Or, glued to his computer screen, not looking up, sharing anything, _blinking_, or really showing any signs of life for hours on end.

Or just disappearing, and returning, both while Sebastian was asleep, then pretending not to have any clue that he'd been gone.

It was driving Sebastian mad.

He knew Jim wasn't exactly _stable_, but he also knew Jim wasn't acting normal. Well, normal for Jim. He wasn't _really_ the nonsensical maniac most people thought him to be. Of course, Sebastian would be the only one to see the soft side of Jim; the caring side.

But it seemed that the only sane parts of Jim had vanished.

He was withdrawn, not speaking much, or making any sense when he did, not paying _any_ attention to his fiancé, or anything, for that matter.

Sebastian was _really_ worried for Jim.

James Moriarty found life to be dull.

Boring.

Not worth his valuable _time_.

But some things could bring him enjoyment.

Some things could serve as good distractions from the outside world.

Sebastian had been a god distraction.

Oh, to be sure, that wasn't all that Sebastian _meant_ to Jim, it was just that, well, Jim didn't really have time for much anymore.

Not since he discovered his latest distraction.

And Sherlock Holmes was not a man you could learn everything about in one day.

So Jim learned.

And watched.

And waited.

He knew it was about time to release his last game; Sherlock's final problem to solve.

Hey, that was rather good.

'The Final Problem'. Hah. It sounded an awful lot like one of those atrocious titles of the cases that John Watson had put on the internet.

Ah, John Watson. What a fine example of an ordinary person. So real, so sure, so determined. And, if Jim was to be any judge, he would say that John _fancied_ Sherlock. Quite a lot, in fact. But it didn't seem to reach Sherlock's oversensitive radar, so Jim decided not to bother with John. Much.

He _could_ use John, to help make Sherlock dance. Sherlock only cared about his work, and a very small circle of close friends. John was one, and their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, she was dear to Sherlock as well. And one other, the police inspector, Greg Lestrade. Jim nearly danced with glee.

He could get to all three of them.

Easily.

And with that sort of leverage, he could make Sherlock do whatever he wanted.

But suppose Sherlock _wasn't_ all that he seemed to be? Oh, that would be rich. The world's only consulting detective, a fake. And his arch nemesis, the world's only consulting criminal, merely a figment of Sherlock's imagination, helped along by a desperate actor.

It was a brilliant plan, concocted in the twisted depths of Jim's mind. And so, he would set to work straight away. The first thing he would need would be an alias. A name, for the poor man whom Sherlock had _paid_ to be James Moriarty.

Jim couldn't decide which was more brilliant-the name itself, or the speed at which his master plan was coming together.

_Richard Brook_. Fairytales. The crown. A secret code. A fraud. Three friends. A fall.

It was so perfect, Jim had to compliment his own genius on the matter.

But before there was any celebration, there were a few things Jim needed to do.

And first, he needed to make a statement.

Sebastian Moran was officially more annoyed than he was worried about his fiancé. It was worse than the silent treatment. Jim had just left _again_, without telling Sebastian where he was going.

A few hours later, Sebastian found out. But not from Jim. From the news.

On every news channel, and soon to be plastered across the front page of every newspaper and tabloid, was Jim. Jim, stealing the crown jewels, Jim's upcoming trial, and the most confusing, Jim's message he had written on the glass case of the jewels.

GET SHERLOCK

What the bloody _hell_ was _that_ supposed to mean?

Who _was _Sherlock?

And who was the message directed to?

Jim was in jail now, and had obviously done that on purpose.

But why?


	6. Betrayal

Chapter Six- Betrayal

There really is something exhilarating about winning a court case.

Especially one as _unpredictable_ as this.

Then again, you couldn't really label James Moriarty as 'predictable'.

And he had that reputation to uphold.

Though, it seemed he had neglected to uphold his private reputation, as was clearly etched across Sebastian's sour face when he returned home.

"Why so gloomy, Seb?"

The sniper didn't answer, but turned away from Jim, and sank into an armchair, pulling up the paper to read.

"Ah. I assume you've read up on my most recent endeavors, then?"

Sebastian didn't look up.

Jim sauntered over to the chair, and plopped down on Sebastian's lap, squishing the newspaper with a loud crinkling noise.

Sebastian glared at him.

"Aw, don't be such a sour puss, Sebby. You really have no reason to be angry."

Furious, Sebastian opened his mouth to begin a long, loud telling-off, but Jim seized the moment, and leaned forward, plunging his tongue into Sebastian's mouth in a wet kiss.

Sebastian sat still for a moment, then put his hands against Jim's shoulders, and shoved him back.

Now Jim was glaring back at him.

"_Really_, Sebastian!? What is your _problem?"_

Sebastian nearly shook with rage.

"You!" he spat, "_You_ are my problem!"

For a moment, Jim seemed quite taken aback, and hurt. Then his expression hardened.

"And _how_," he began, deadly quiet, "am _I_ **_your_** problem?" Jim continued,

"As I recall, it was _you_ who begged me for a job, in the beginning. _You, _who asked me to dinner. _You,_ who stole my heart, and took it with you when you disappeared to Afghanistan, leaving me to think you to be _dead _for _two __**years!**_

"You were an adequate distraction, Moran. A good sniper, and a good shag. But now, you are just _useless_. I am so _done_ with you!"

These last few words sank deep into Sebastian's heart, and threaded around in his body like poison, racing through his veins.

He almost started crying. But who was he kidding? He always knew, deep down, that Jim couldn't handle the depth of a real, emotional relationship. He had always known that it would end, and that there was nothing he could do to change Jim.

So Sebastian hardened his expression, and glowered at Jim.

"_Fine."_ Spat Sebastian, working all of the loathing into the single word that he possibly could. He stood, shoving Jim onto the ground, and walked towards the door.

He stopped for a moment, turned back towards Jim, and with a look of hatred, tore the ring from his own finger, and threw it to the ground, where it rolled out of sight. He then spun around, and strode out the door, slamming it for good measure.

Once Sebastian was gone, Jim crumbled. He sank down, until he was curled up on the cold floor, and wept.

Hot tears poured down his face as the consulting detective sobbed uncontrollably. _What_ had he _done?!_ Sebastian was _gone_! Most likely, never to return again.

_Now_ who could Jim run to? Who would help him, clean him up after he had been gone all night, piss drunk or mutilating a dead body? Who could wake him from his nightmares, which plagued him ever more often nowadays, and hold him, rock him, whisper words that banished the monsters and lulled Jim back to sleep?

Who would _love_ him, now that he had proven to the world to be just as incapable of attachment or emotion as the asexual sociopath, Sherlock?

Jim cried until his tears were gone, then he sobbed dryly, until his sobs dissolved into hiccups.

Sherlock. Jim hated him. This was _his_ fault! Sebastian was _gone_ because of Sherlock! If Sherlock had never existed, this whole mess never would have happened.

Then, a low rumbling began in his chest.

Blazing red fury pulsed through his veins, heating every inch of him as he roared, and flung out an arm, upending a coffee table. He stood shakily, breathing quickly, and walked up to his bedroom.

Sherlock could be dealt with later. Right now, he needed to sleep.

But he couldn't. The bed smelled too much like his missing sniper, and Jim couldn't take it.

So, he decided to call Kitty.

That was where he had been, most days. Whenever he went missing, he had been at Kitty's place. He knew he couldn't tell Sebastian; the sniper would have been even angrier with him if he knew the reason his fiancé was disappearing constantly was because he was with Kitty.

But he wasn't _with_ Kitty. Not really. Not ever. He was maintaining a false relationship with her, under the name of Richard Brook, and feeding the girl information.

The information he had learned of Holmes.

He knew it would come in handy, Jim just needed to find the right reporter. And Kitty was _ perfect_. So willing. So easy to fool. She had gobbled the scared-actor-hired-by-Sherlock-Holmes story right up, and had already finished the article that would denounce the detective, and brand him a fraud.

It was also, incidentally, the article that would erase James Moriarty. Forever.

Jim quickly changed into jeans and a t-shirt, mussed up his hair, and went to call a cab.

When he arrived at Kitty's house, he had procured fake tears, and a story about how his landlord had kicked him out of his flat because he found out about him being James Moriarty.

He blubbered to Kitty about how it wasn't _true_, and how people _needed_ to see the article, because he hadn't done anything _wrong_. Kitty took him in, held him, consoled him, and promised him that she would get the article out soon.

She also, of course, missed the wicked grin that Jim had on his face, after Kitty had put "Richard" to bed.


	7. Endings

Chapter seven-Endings

Sebastian Moran had nowhere to go. This thought had whacked him over the head several times, as he walked to the bar. Then, the fact that he had no money. That drove him out, onto the street, where he considered his situation.

He could steal, that was certain. He could try and get a job, which might work. Or he could go back to Jim, which he knew would end in disaster. So he walked.

He walked and waked, until he didn't recognize the town anymore. He walked until the night fell, and the streets were bathed in darkness. Then he went down an alleyway, found a nice, secluded corner, behind a dumpster, and lay down to sleep.

Jim had woken the next morning, and insisted upon doing some shopping for Kitty. As soon as he got out of her flat, Jim called a cab, and drove to his house. He walked inside, _feeling_ its emptiness, a weight, pressing down upon Moriarty.

Sebastian wasn't here.

Jim felt like crying. And so he did, freely, standing here in his empty house, with an empty heart.

He had nothing.

He wiped his face, and quickly got a cab back to Kitty's flat.

He got back to the flat, turned his key in the lock, opened the door, slipping seamlessly back into the role of Richard Brook, and walked towards where he knew Kitty would be waiting.

He entered the room, muttering a rehearsed excuse for not bringing anything back, when he saw who was in the room.

Jim froze.

He thanked his lucky stars later, for being able to stay perfectly in character, as he and Kitty tried to convince John of Sherlock being a fraud.

As Jim knew he would, John remained loyal, shouting at the consulting criminal alongside Sherlock.

Jim needed to wrap this up soon. Sherlock was getting too close to violent.

And so, as the detective advanced, Jim yelled, and turned to run to the back of Kitty's flat, into the small room at the back, and out the single window.

Sebastian had woken up, cold and uncomfortable on the ground. He needed a drink. The only problem was that he didn't know where he was. So, he did the sensible thing, and stole a car. Well, not _stole_ stole; more like found, and um _borrowed_.

And it was thus, that as the engine of his hotwired Jaguar purred as he drove down a familiar street, that Sebastian saw something that made him nearly swerve off the road.

James Moriarty was running up the street, straight towards him.

Jim had hit the ground running, naturally. And didn't even hesitate as he ran up to the rumbling Jaguar, and leapt agilely into the passenger seat, beside the man who had just reached over to open the door for him.

Sebastian had his foot on the gas pedal as soon as Jim's feet left the ground. He had gone a block before Jim was seated properly, and another four in the time it took Jim to close his door. Sebastian floored it, watching the little red needle slide past 100 kilometers.

He drove faster and faster, swerving expertly between cars, up streets and down avenues, until he came to a sudden halt in front of a _very_ familiar-looking mansion.

Sebastian sat back, breathing heavily. Jim wouldn't look at him, and stared straight ahead, his chest rising and falling softly.

Sebastian decided to start the conversation. He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezed his eyes shut, and spoke with and extremely annoyed air,

"Jim. What. The. _Fuck?"_

Jim drew in a shaky breath.

"I'm sorry, Sebastian." It came out as less than a whisper, lost in the pounding rage that Sebastian felt against his brain.

The sniper left his eyes shut, raising his other hand, to wave it aimlessly around in the air as he spoke, "I'm not about to put up with you again, so you can just get the fuck out of my car, and leave me the _fuck_ alone."

"I said I'm fucking _sorry, _Moran!" Jim screamed at him, shaking with emotion, "_don't_ expect me to _ever_ repeat myself again."

Sebastian opened his eyes. Jim was looking over at him, his beautiful brown eyes brimming with tears, and shaking with suppressed sobs.

"I...I _need_ you, Sebastian. I really do."

Sebastian nearly gave in. he almost reached over, and kissed his lover, accepting his apology, forgiving him completely. But his common sense spoke for him.

"Need me, do you? And what about later; when you _don't?"_

The dam broke, and all of Sebastian's fury washed over Jim in a cold flood of words,

"What about when you decide to leave, or find something more _entertaining_ than me? Or when you feel like I'm not _enough_ anymore? _You_ sent _me_ away, and I took my leave, but now you want me _back?_

"Well, I have one thing to say to you, _Moriarty," _Jim flinched at this use of his surname, "I am _so_ fucking **_done with you_**_."_

Jim froze, and then Sebastian watched as a cold fury distorted the criminal mastermind's face.

Jim drew a hand back, and slapped Sebastian with such a force that Sebastian saw stars.

"_Bastard_," Jim choked, tears pouring down his furious face as he pulled the door open, got out of the car, slammed the door shut, and ran up the steps to the large house.

Sebastian sat in the car, trembling with rage.

_Shit. ShitshitshitshitSHIT!_

Now what?

Now where would he go?

There was nothing left for him anymore. _Nothing._

Sebastian couldn't think. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He was overwhelmed by an overflowing cascade of emotions, piling on top of each other, smothering him.

He couldn't do anything, so he drove. Sebastian Moran drove and drove, wondering vaguely where he was and what he should do.

And knowing none of the answers to his questions, because that part of him was gone.

For good.

James Moriarty was positively _livid. _And a livid madman boiling over with emotion can be _very_ dangerous.

This was no ordinary temper tantrum.

This was an explosion.

Jim had only just shut the door of his expansive house behind him when it began.

Jim screamed.

He screamed so loudly that birds on the roof of neighboring houses took flight.

He dropped to the ground, screaming his lungs out, tearing at his clothes, his hair, his face.

Jim threw his head back, and screamed to the ceiling, pounding his fists on anything he could reach.

He stood up, only after running out of breath, and reached out with both hands, shoving, ripping, yanking, not caring what crashed to the ground, or shattered in his grip.

He growled and shrieked like a tiger, ripping his way through the house.

Cushions were torn open, their soft contents littering the rooms, glasses and china were shattered, leaving thousands of sharp pieces everywhere, end tables were snapped, surfaces cracked and scarred by the consulting criminal's rage.

Jim fell to the ground, hands now bloody bruised and broken, hanging at his sides.

This wasn't okay.

_Nothing_ was okay!

Jim couldn't get him back, he tried, but he couldn't!

What should he do _now_?!

For once in his life, James Moriarty had no idea what to do next.

So he cried.

And that disgusted him.

Jim clawed at his eyes, only causing the tears to flow faster as he staggered to his feet.

Nothing left to break but himself; he began throwing his body against the walls, pounding on his limbs and torso until they were thoroughly bruised.

He picked up a shard of china, and carved into himself, sweeping strokes across his wrist; _SM_.

Blood began gushing from the cuts, and Jim laughed.

He laughed and laughed, running around the ruined house, finally coming across what he had been looking for; a bottle of vodka.

He held the bottle laughing until he cried again, and musing over what to do.

He could try and kill himself this way. Drink until he died, when his liver just couldn't handle it anymore. He could drench himself, and burn. That would be a more elegant way to do it, but Jim wanted to make a statement.

Opening the bottle, he took a sip of the strong alcohol, to clear his head, and thought.

Sherlock needed to die, that was certain.

And Jim wanted to die as well.

But _how?_

He would need to find a way to do it, a way where the whole world could see.

The answer came to him in the most ironic way.

Jim's phone buzzed and he pulled it out of his pocket, considering smashing it as well, before he saw the new text message he had.

Come and play. St. Bart's Hospital rooftop. SH

Jim grinned.

This was _perfect!_

He skipped to his room, got into his closet, and pulled out a good Westwood suit. He quickly washed himself, wrapped his wrist, and styled his hair. He got dressed, humming to himself, before shoving his phone into one pocket, and Sebastian's loaded revolver into the other.

He quickly exited the house, trailing the vodka bottle behind him, drawing a liquid path from the front door, up the stairs, to the soft master bed. He snagged a lighter out of one of the coats by the door, flicked it open, and dropped it onto the trail of alcohol.

Jim squealed as he watched it ignite, clapping his hands gleefully as he watched the fire ascend the stairs, towards the bedroom.

He turned back around, smiling to himself, and quickly hailed a cab.

Sebastian didn't want to live.

His life was already over, so it seemed comfortably conclusive that he floored the gas pedal, and sped straight into one of the old, cracked pillars that held up a bridge somewhere in the countryside that Sebastian had wandered into.

Sebastian let go of the wheel, closing his eyes, and crashed into the stone, letting his mind go blank.

Jim reached the hospital in minutes, sneaking up to the roof, and texted Sherlock.

I'm waiting… JM

He sat on the ledge, pulling out his phone, and began listening to 'Stayin' alive', the best and most ironic music to begin this event.

He heard the door open, saw the consulting detective step out, onto the roof.

He had texted three of his second-best assassins, and made sure they were in position to ruin Sherlock's life just as much as Jim's was at the moment.

He cherished the look on the detective's face as he revealed his plan, and loved the way Sherlock obediently got up onto the ledge, preparing to kill himself.

Jim would write a letter to Sebastian once this was done. He would write, explaining how his death was because he was alone. He would shoot himself later, in the midst of his burning house, and leave the note where Sebastian could find it.

Jim almost missed the sound of Sherlock's laughter behind him, and spun around angrily, "_What? _What'd I miss?!"

Sherlock laughed, and explained how he thought he would be able to stop Jim's snipers from destroying everything he held dear, so long as Jim himself was alive.

_Well_. Thought Jim. _This complicates things. But it'll be better this way._

"Well good luck with that," he told the detective, before reaching into his pocket, pulling out the gun, and shooting himself through the mouth, and out the back of his head.

And Sherlock jumped.

~?~


	8. Epilogue

Epilogue-

Dying wasn't at all what Sebastian imagined it would be. He could have never imagined there being this much _pain._

He was being ripped apart, burned, crushed and stretched all at the same time.

It occurred to him that death just couldn't be _this_ painful.

And that he wasn't dead.

He was still alive.

This was odd; because Sebastian was quite sure he had killed himself.

He mentally slapped himself. Couldn't he do _anything_ right?

Sebastian was very confused.

If he wasn't dead, then where _was _he?

He couldn't see anything.

Or hear anything.

Or feel anything.

So _what_ was going on?

Greg Lestrade sat in his office, watching the telly.

He had read about the death of the two most intelligent men in the world, both suicides, by the look of it. Now, he was watching the people on the screen, proclaiming Sherlock and Moriarty to both be very dead.

Lestrade didn't buy a word of it.

Sherlock was far too clever to kill himself, and Moriarty was just far too _fond_ of himself.

Neither of them could be dead.

But, in the close-ups of James' face, he looked _very_ deceased, his face frozen in a wide-eyed, open-mouthed grin of realization.

And Sherlock couldn't have possibly survived that fall.

Could he?

Lestrade rubbed a hand down his face, and changed the channel.

There, on the screen, was Sebastian Moran.

He was lying on a hospital bed, hooked up to a machine that dripped liquid into him, while a steady _beep beep beep_ kept the beat of his heart. Greg listened to the story, of the collapsed bridge, and how it had been caused by the assassin running a speeding Jaguar into one of the old pillars that held it up.

The pillar had crumbled with the impact, and so did the Jaguar, propelling the ruined car into a nearby field. Sebastian had been knocked out cold by the initial impact, and had received severe head trauma, and a ruptured spleen, which had been hastily removed, just in time to save Moran.

They said he had not yet regained consciousness, but they believed he would make a full recovery.

Sebastian's head was _pounding._

And the lights didn't help at _all._

Wait…lights?

Sebastian blinked, and reached a hand up to rub his eyes.

Aside from the mother of all headaches, and a dull pain in his lower abdomen, he felt alright.

And definitely _not_ dead.

He scrunched his eyes shut, and tried to block out the pain.

His eyes snapped open again, as the news reporter on the telly in his hospital room said, "...James Moriarty, who was proclaimed dead a few hours ago, after being found on the roof of St. Bart's hospital."

Sebastian's stomach dropped into his feet.

_Jim, dead?_

Not just dead, but having killed himself, by the look of the images on the screen.

Sebastian shut his eyes again, this time squeezing tears out from behind his lids.

Jim was gone.

And Sebastian was still there.

He hated himself. For leaving Jim, and causing him to die. He hated himself for trying to commit suicide. He hated himself for failing. And he knew he wasn't going to try again.

He would attempt to live, without his love. He would endure. For Jim.

After being released from the hospital, Sebastian didn't know what to do.

He was becoming infuriated by his constant absence of a plan.

"Moran?" the timid voice made Sebastian spin round, and look into the cautious face of John Watson.

Sebastian glared at him.

"What do you bloody want?"

John raised his hands, in a surrendering gesture,

"To be quite honest, I don't know. I was just wondering if you were doing alright…?"

He trailed off under the heat of Moran's glare.

"Why are you even _talking_ to me, Watson?"

John's face softened.

"Because I lost my fiancé too. I know how you feel."

Sebastian did a double-take. John and Sherlock were _engaged?_ When the hell had _that_ happened? And how did _John _know that he and Jim had been engaged?

Sebastian's surprise must have shown on his face, because John smiled knowingly, and said,

"Sherlock and I had been together for awhile. Not very long though, and he proposed right out of the blue, about a week and a half ago. Just a bit before the fall," John took a shaky breath, and continued, "and Jim had a ring, so he was obviously engaged. I knew all about you, and found out you two were living together."

Sebastian held his glare.

"Yeah, Watson? Well not anymore. He's gone, and I've got nowhere to go. So why don't you just leave me alone?"

John smiled softly.

"Hey, if you need a place to stay, I can talk to Mrs. Hudson, our…. _my_ landlady," John blinked at the ceiling, holding back tears, "she's got an empty flat, if you're in the market."

"Well I'm not. I've got no home, no goddamn money, _nothing_. I've got _nothing_ left."

Sebastian was close to tears, and blinked them back, furious.

"Just fuck off, Watson. Go jump off a building or something."

John blinked. He stepped back, obviously hurt, and turned to leave.

"That's how I feel too, Moran. I haven't got anything left either."

Then he was gone.

Sebastian grumbled, and left the gloomy hospital.

Predictably, an hour later, Sebastian was very drunk. He had found a bar where a man worked who owed him a favor or two, and got himself drunk off free whiskey.

He staggered to a curb, and sat down, mulling over Jim.

What would Jim think of him now?

He knew the answer to _that_. Jim would be absolutely disgusted.

Sebastian could almost hear Jim saying, _for god's sake, Moran. Get up off your lazy arse, and get yourself cleaned up at once. You look dreadful._

Sebastian agreed.

And that was how he ended up taking a cab to 221 B Baker Street, and collapsing onto John as soon as the door opened.

"Alrigh', John." He slurred, slumped against the shorter man, "I'll stay 'ere."

Two years later, Sebastian was walking about 221 B, gathering his things.

The anniversary of the Fall had come round again, and it wasn't as hard as the last one had been, much to both John and Sebastian's relief.

"Off to visit Jim, then?" John was sitting in Sherlock's old armchair, reading a novel.

"Yeah," replied Sebastian distractedly.

Somehow, Moran had managed to find work, bartending at a pub a few blocks away. He also worked part-time at an old-fashioned shooting gallery, teaching people how to shoot. He didn't make much, but what he did make was enough to cover his half of the rent on the flat, and some food expenses.

John insisted on making dinner almost every day though, so food wasn't an issue.

"I'll be heading down there myself, later," John said, "I'll wait until you're back, though."

Sebastian grinned. "Thanks mate."

He hurried out the door, and called a cab, and arrived at the cemetery.

He walked between gravestones, weaving up the path that led to the beautiful white tombstone, which read in black letters, simply, James Moriarty.

Sebastian sat in the grass in front of the stone, and started talking.

"Hey, Jim. Well, it's been two years. I miss you, y'know. Thought a lot about trying to kill myself again, after I found out you were gone. It just didn't seem like there was anything left to live for. I still think about it, and every time, I heard your voice, telling me about all the things I have to live for.

"But that list gets shorter and shorter, and soon there won't be anything left for me to live for. I just wanted to give you a heads-up, in case it happens soon, but once I've run out of reasons to live, indefinitely, I think I'll be joining you, no matter what you think of me because of it.

"I hope you're doing alright. You know I've never believed in a god, or gods, plural. I've always had a practical outlook on life and death, but I think that someone as brilliant as you deserves more. And that's why I think you'll be waiting for me, as soon as I've got no more reason to live.

"I think so often about how I treated you. It makes me want to burn myself. Slowly. Or cut myself into tiny pieces. Makes me want to find _some way_ to get close to felling the pain I must have caused you. I am so _sorry_. I know that words can never mend the rip I tore, but now that you're gone,"

Tears began to trickle down Sebastian's face, and he continued in a slightly choked voice,

"Now that you're gone, this is the only way I can show you how much I _care_. And I know you'll never forgive me. I've accepted that. I know I'll never be able to forgive myself. But I hope you can see how sorry I am, and maybe consider not being dead. Just for me, Jim. I need you,"

He wiped his face, and Sebastian stood, setting a single rose down on the grave.

"I'll come back again next year, Jim. I can't bear to see you any sooner. I can't bear to see the results of my heartlessness. I'm leaving now, but I just wanted to tell you that I love you. I love you, James Moriarty. And I'm sorry."

A strangled sob came from behind Sebastian, and he whirled around, prepared to defend himself.

The consulting criminal himself stood a few meters back, both hands clutched over his mouth, tears streaming from his eyes.

Sebastian nearly fainted. Then he was furious.

"You, but-what the- how- _fuck, Jim!_" Sebastian spluttered, before striding forward, ripping Jim's hands from his mouth, and kissing him hungrily, reverently.

Jim pulled Sebastian back, holding his face in trembling hands, watching the muddled mix of emotions cross his lover's face.

Sebastian opened his mouth, but could speak. Jim, still crying, smiled, and forced a laugh through his tears,

"You always were a sentimental _prick,_ you know that, Sebby?"

Sebastian laughed, and placed a hand on Jim's cheek. Jim closed his eyes, and leaned into his touch, purring softly.

"God, I've missed you, Sebastian."

Sebastian smiled. And cried. He was too overwhelmed for coherent thought, so he kissed Jim.

He kissed through the regret and pain he felt. He kissed through the walls of doubt, and fury. He kissed through the two years he'd gone without his love, and kissed through his elation that he had Jim back.

Sebastian was flying.

All of the guilt, the weight that had grounded him for so long, it was lifted.

Tears streamed down their cheeks, and the two men broke apart, smiling.

Jim leaned into Sebastian's chest, and murmured, "Guess we're even now, huh 'Bastian?"

Sebastian kissed the top of Jim's head, and held him close.

"Oh, and one more thing."

Jim smirked through his tear-stained face, and sank to the ground, holding one of Sebastian's hands.

"I believe you left this at the house," he said, slipping the simple ring back onto Sebastian's finger, where it belonged.

Sebastian pulled him to his feet, "god, Jim. I'm so-"

Jim put a hand against the taller mans lips, to silence him, "I know, Seb. I know. You don't have to explain _anything._ All that matters is we're together."

Sebastian gave him a watery smile, and offered Jim an elbow, walking out of the cemetery with his fiancé holding his arm, leaning into him, making sure Sebastian knew he really was back.

For good.

In the shadows of a tall oak, a slender, raven-haired man stood, tears slipping silently down his face as he watched the two men leave the grounds, as he thought about the pain he must have caused John.

There really were a fascinating amount of similarities between the detective named Sherlock, and a villain named Jim.


End file.
